


Crawl Home to You

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 14x11 Coda, 14x12 coda, Bottom!Sam, Damaged Goods coda, First Time, M/M, Prophet and Loss coda, Season/Series 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: Dean's right about one thing: Samisthe only one who can talk him out of his stupid, suicidal plan. And he's going to do just that, despite Dean's doubts. Just watch him. Coda for both 14x11, "Damaged Goods," and 14x12, "Prophet and Loss."





	Crawl Home to You

**Author's Note:**

> So... hi? Can we talk about how amazing the last two episodes were? I haven't written anything in over a year (obviously), and then I watch last week's and this week's episode, and bam. I couldn't stop writing, y'all. 
> 
> For purposes of this fic: The boys went home to the bunker between 14x11 and 14x12. Also, I have to admit I only watched the brother parts (and haven't seen any other recent episodes), so I'm not sure if Jack is still living in the bunker, but for this fic, he is. Make sense? Let's do this. Xo
> 
> Ps: This is unbetaed, as usual. Bear with me as I clean up the typos I can only see after I post (typical, am I right).

“In the low lamplight I was free  
Heaven and Hell were words to me  
When my time comes around  
Lay me gently in the cold dark earth  
No grave can hold my body down  
I’ll crawl home to her.”  
—Hozier, _Work Song_

Sam feels like he’s in a daze as he moves through the heavy bunker door to stand on the landing, watching the slumped, hopeless set of his brother’s shoulders as he clomps down the stairs behind Dean. One of Sam’s bootlaces came untied earlier, and he listens passively as it clangs against the iron staircase as they descend. 

His eyes sleepily track Dean as his brother moves through the dark war room, dropping his duffel on top of the map table with a loud _whump_ before disappearing into the low-lit library. Sam hears Jack and Cas (who Sam had called for backup as soon as Dean had pointed Baby back west) hesitantly greet him, their voices a little stuffy, a little cold. If only Sam could remember how to smile, because he almost wants to. It’s a little validating that not a soul under this roof is happy with Dean, all hurt for their own reasons by his decision to leave them. To leave Sam, after Jack and Cas have seen first-hand (not all that long ago) what it does to him. 

Sam, once again, finds himself trying to imagine living any kind of life with the knowledge that his brother— the callused hands, the strong back, the soft heart— is gone, miles under the waves, completely unreachable to him. He doesn’t know how the stakes get higher every time, but they do. Almost wistfully, he thinks back on his time as the ‘Chief,’ thinks how he would kill for something simple and straightforward to do, like merely _finding_ Michael. Now, all he wants to do is lose the son of a bitch. For good, this time.

He wonders if this is how Dean felt when Sam begged him to seek out the apple pie life with Lisa after Sam decided to jump into a hell hole. He basically asked Dean to ignore the fact that Sam was being eternally, aggressively tormented elsewhere (just like Dean will be). Well, Sam doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, and he’s never felt less like having some apple pie. And— and even if he _does_ eventually have some, he’ll despise every last bite, despise every single ingredient that came together to make it. And he’ll die wishing his brother was around to share it, to take the last bite by his side.

“Sam?” 

Dean pokes his head around the library’s door jamb, searching for the little brother who didn’t follow him like he was supposed to. The little brother who’s just standing there, staring, feeling the sway in his knees as the full-force of everything he’s about to lose comes rushing in. Dean’s heartbreakingly beautiful face, with those bright eyes, and the way they always look for him, to him, right through him, Dean’s unignorable presence filling up a room, every room he walks in to, the way Dean says Sam’s name and how nobody else can say it the way he needs to hear it— every little thing, and so much more, will be gone. Out of Sam’s reach, forever. 

Dean must wonder why Sam is just staring at him across a dark room, so he takes a step back into the war room towards Sam, intending to move him if he won’t get moving himself. Something in Sam recoils so hard at the thought of Dean’s warm touch, his guiding hand on his elbow, his wrist, the small of his back. The touch that’s been guiding him forward his whole life. And soon, the touch that will have no warmth left in it at all. His mind sickly wonders if Dean’s cold, dead hands will prune up in the water. The _wrongness_ of it all slams into Sam, and he takes a huge step back, away from Dean, who’s less than two feet away, now. 

Dean stops short, his expression almost comically shocked. Like Sam had just slapped him, right across his pretty face. Like Dean would’ve preferred Sam slap him. “Sammy, what—”

Sam can’t do this right now. He can’t do this ever, but especially not right now. He needs to think, be alone, be away from Dean. He’s gotta figure something out, and he just can’t get his brain to work right when Dean’s around, because his stupid, love-sick heart always takes the wheel. 

That’s what he thinks Dean meant, why he said he couldn’t be around Sam, that he was the last person Dean could be around. Although it didn’t help soothe the sting, Sam at least understood: Dean’s brain would be telling him one thing, but his heart, which is so thoroughly held captive by his brother, would have been squeezed so tight, no thoughts besides those of Sam could get through. 

“I’m gonna... go. To get, uh, _several_ drinks,” is what Sam finally croaks out, turning from his brother. He’s two seconds away from running back up the steps, away from Dean’s shiny, wounded eyes, away from the overwhelming need to usurp every second Dean has left, away from the terrible knowledge that any remaining time Dean has left could never be enough for Sam.

“Hold up,” Dean calls behind him, struggling back into his jacket. Sam knows Dean is a little desperate to spend all his remaining time with him, too. How could he not be? “I could go for—“ 

Regardless, Sam spins around, pinning Dean with the darts firing from under his eyelids. “You’re not invited, Dean.” 

Sam says it quietly, but he might as well have shouted it. Jack and Cas stop talking abruptly, hearing the finality of his tone all the way in the library, and Dean looks like Sam just sentenced him to something horrible he knows he deserves. He freezes in the middle of trying to get his arm through the wrong jacket sleeve, staring at the ground by Sam’s feet, every drop of color draining from his face. 

There’s not a whole hell of a lot more Sam could have said to hurt Dean worse than a blatant, ‘I don’t want you around.’ It’s Dean’s biggest fear and insecurity, the constant worry that Sam doesn’t love Dean as much as Dean loves him, the fear that his love might someday become a burden too heavy for Sam to bear. Sam just tore that wound open right here, for all to see.

Part of Sam immediately wants to take it back, or at least soften his tone and try again. He watches the shutters slam over Dean’s eyes, his posture locking down, closing in on itself, and it kills Sam that his words caused that. 

As horrible as he feels, though, another part of him wants Dean to fight back— a big part, if he’s honest. So even though Dean doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look like he can breathe right now (like Sam had just personally rearranged his internal organs), let alone come up with a response, Sam continues as if Dean had. 

“Yeah, you know, like how I wasn’t invited on your goodbye tour? It’s kind of like that. Because I’m gonna drink a lot, and I don’t need anyone _talking me out of it._ You know what I mean?” 

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is flattened, resigned, like there’s barely anything left for him to give. Dean deserves Sam’s anger, and he knows it, so he’s gonna stand here until Sam gets all his acid out. Sam knows it, too, but despite how upset he is, he can’t just stand here, picking at his brother’s already crumbling foundation. So he finishes up with something that’s been needling him since it happened, the wrongness of hearing those words in such a loveless, heartbreaking circumstance— 

“And— and that was a really messed up way to tell someone you love them. You know? Maybe you should think about— think about that.”

Sam doesn’t elaborate any further; he’s too emotionally charged right now. So many things have happened to his heart in such a short span of time, who the hell knows what all could float up to the surface because of it? 

There was the confusing hug, the one in which Sam swore he could feel Dean’s lips barely miss his hair, hear his deep inhales as he took in the smell of Sam’s shampoo. And there was also the admission that Dean still can’t say no to Sam (or can he, because Sam swears he hasn’t stopped screaming ‘no!’ since Dean told him of his plan, but Dean’s still going through with it, isn’t he? Something about Michael must really mess Dean up, because he was like this last time, with Zachariah), but the biggest thing was the spilling of words Sam’s heart had been selfishly hoping to hear for the entirety of his adult life, and a good deal of his teenage years, too. And it couldn’t have felt more wrong to finally hear them, knowing it was Dean saying goodbye. 

When he realizes Dean really isn’t going to let Sam pick a fight with him, he turns on his heel to leave, his steps loud and angry as he makes his way back up the stairs. He never tied his shoelace, so it clangs against the iron once more. 

“And I’m taking the Impala!” Sam shouts over his shoulder, knowing the keys are currently sitting in the wheel-well. He wants Dean to be double-sick with worry all night, not only over him, but over the carrier of the precious cargo as well. And anyway, “It’ll be mine soon, so fuck it, right?” 

He slams the heavy door behind him just as the tears boil over, the ones he’s been fighting since he murmured “Poughkeepsie” and shattered Dean’s disbelieving expression. He sits in the darkened foyer between doors (sobbing so hard his chest hurts afterwards) for a good fifteen minutes before he can get ahold of himself, pick himself up off the floor. He’s not a crier; he hates crying more than anything, so he’s even angrier now— the kind of anger that drives him to make mistakes. Stupid Dean, making him cry because Sam loves him so much he doesn’t know what to do with it all, so it has to spill out somewhere. 

His little family must realize Sam hasn’t left, because the closing of the outside door is audible through to the library, and obviously no one has heard it yet. But nobody comes after him. Soon, there won’t be anyone (he’ll listen to) left to come after him at all. 

It’s a little after midnight when Sam returns. He’s definitely buzzed, but nowhere near as drunk as he hopes Dean will think he is, because dammit, buzzed him is really in the mood to be babied, to be coddled. There’s no one but Dean he’d even _want_ babying and/or coddling him, and there’s this sudden urgency flowing through his blood to get in as much of Dean’s affection as possible. He’s kind of got a plan now, though, so even though he might’ve left for stupid(ish) reasons, something good came out of it, at least. And— and, well. 

There aren’t too many bars to choose from in Lebanon, so he’d settled for the dusty dive with the pretty, petite, thirty-something bartender he always bantered (flirted) with, and he'd settled for it on purpose. 

He got drunk enough to make out with her behind the bar during her break, drunk enough to let her give him a giant purple hickey right next to his tattoo (that’s as far as she could reach, even on her tiptoes), but not drunk enough to let her take it any further. It would’ve been unfair, for one, because his heart (and therefore his dick) just wasn’t in it, despite her cute little figure and flowery-smelling hair. It was one _hundred_ percent about Dean, and he’s self-aware enough to know that. He hopes Dean is furious about someone marking up his skin right next to his (somewhat newly redone) tattoo. His mark. Their mark. 

That’s another reason Sam is so upset about all of this, he realizes, as he bangs loudly down the stairs for the last time tonight, his damned shoelace still untied. Great, that’s just great. He hit on and made out with a pretty woman while his damned shoe was untied. 

Anyway. He’s upset about this for a lot of reasons, for sure, but as he takes the stairs into the library, his blurry eyes land on Dean, fast asleep at the table farthest from him, one lamp shining lowly, his head on his crossed arms, and his butt in his seat. Sam’s heart both warms and freezes, and he swallows thickly. To— to have this devotion, to know this love, and then to lose this man. Over and over again. God, how can he bear this? How could anyone? 

He never doubted Dean would wait up for him, but he thought he’d just listen from his room for the bunker door to open and shut. He didn’t think Dean would set up camp until he was back. It makes him wobble a little as he stops short in front of Dean, fists bunching to keep his hands from moving towards Dean. To seek the warmth of Dean’s fire, have it sear him, brand him forever, to create a deep, lasting scar as proof. Proof Dean was once here, warm and so fucking _alive_ under Sam’s hands. 

But there’s already so much proof, and that’s why he’s _really_ upset. He knows Dean loves him; he knows it like he knows his own name, like he knows his mother’s forever scent, like he knows if he hadn’t gone to Stanford, it would have been Dean pinned to a shabby motel ceiling by a yellow-eyed demon, instead of Jess at their off-campus apartment. Like he knows he’s so secretly, ashamedly grateful it wasn’t Dean, it churns his guts like sour milk. And like he knows, without a doubt, that part of him will always be a monster.

And anyway, he knows it hurts Dean just as badly when they’re separated, no matter the circumstance. Their souls will always call out for each other, like a distress signal, a literal SOS. They will never be fully at rest, at peace, unless they’re together, no matter what, where, when, why, or how. 

So, some part of Dean must feel like he deserves to be cut off from Sam, and it must be such a big part of him that he’s willing to separate himself from the other half of his soul forever. And Sam thinks he has an idea of why Dean feels that way, what it is about himself that makes him feel so ashamed, so deserving of punishment. It’s in Sam, too, and he used to think the same thing about himself: he was sick, depraved, didn’t deserve Dean as a brother because he looked at him, thought about him in ways that certainly didn’t fall in the brotherly category. 

But he came to accept it when he came to see it for what it was (not long after Ash revealed their heavenly alignment, right around the time he made Dean his stone number one): not something disgusting, but something inevitable. How long can one person be your whole world, your entire reason for existence, without it turning into something more, something new? How long can you die for them, sell your soul for them, before you realize you want to give your life _to_ them, not just for them? 

There are tons of other reasons why they make sense, but most of all: they just fuckin’ do. Especially considering he’s sure Dean feels the same way. That proves it’s not just a sick, lustful infatuation— it’s love, it’s a language, a duty, a devotion, and he’s run out of ways to express how he feels as a brother. But as a man, he has so many ideas of how he could show Dean. If he could just get Dean to _see—_

Well, Dean says he won't be talked out of it, but Sam has an ace up his sleeve. Dean was right to be worried about being around Sam, because he’s not even close to finished trying to talk Dean out of it. Actually, Sam’s ideas involving not-talking would probably work better on his brother. 

Dean startles awake then, just as Sam knew he eventually would. Neither of them can sleep for long when the other’s gone, for one. Then, there’s the fact that something inside them flickers on when the other is near, close, some inner knowing, as cheesy as that sounds. It compels them even in their sleep, as shown by Dean sitting up a moment later, groan-yawning. 

“Sammy, hey,” Dean murmurs, rubbing at his sleepy eyes as they zero-in on Sam, smiling at him a little. 

Whatever tension there was between them when he left is gone, and Sam is so damned grateful for that. Because right now he’s so _very_ tired, and he misses his stupid brother, and he shouldn’t have left, and maybe he’s a little more drunk than he thought. 

“You just get in?” Dean prods like a big brother must, stretching his arms above his head, groan-yawning some more. 

Sam nods, the movement making him wobble again. Why did he have to leave? Why did he have to pick a fight? He should be spending every moment Dean has left glued to his side, and he had wasted their (literally) precious time. Before he knows it, there are tears pooling in his eyes once more. (Crying. Again. Dammit, Dean.) 

“Sammy, _don’t,”_ Dean pleads with a sweet, soft voice, standing up on his stiff, tired legs to move towards his unsteady, pouty little brother.

“Dean,” Sam sighs, but it comes out all pitiful, like he’s ten again and they can’t take the neighborhood dog with them when they move. “I’m so—”

“Stop,” Dean demands quietly as he reaches Sam, grabbing onto his forearms, wrapping them up tightly. “Everything’s okay right now, little brother. I’m okay. You’re okay. Right?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. Dean lets Sam move his arms enough to fist the open flaps of his soft navy-blue and grey flannel, using his grip to pull Dean a little closer. “Sleepy, though. And, uh. Kinda drunk.”

Dean looks him up and down, the ghost of a smile on his face. He seems to be more amused than annoyed by Sam’s half-drunk tears and affection, so Sam takes that as a good sign. What kind of good sign he doesn’t know, but he’ll always be grateful for a Dean who’s humoring the baby brother in him. Then, Dean reaches out to draw him close by his waist, his warm, rough palms hugging the curve of Sam’s hips, and Sam has to lock his unsteady knees so not to completely melt into his brother. He kind of succeeds. 

“Bedtime,” is what Dean eventually asserts after letting Sam hang onto him sleepily for a moment, pulling him forward without waiting for a response. 

Sam allows Dean to guide him down the stairs into the hallway, and they’re about halfway down when Sam realizes Dean turned towards his room instead of Sam’s. He opens his mouth to say something, but Dean knows where Sam’s room is, so he has to assume Dean knows where he’s going. And he’s _so_ not gonna ruin that by saying something, causing Dean to think twice about it. 

And yeah, a couple moments later Dean’s pulling Sam into his bedroom, sitting Sam down on the soft mattress before moving back to close the door and flip on a lamp. Sam feels a little vulnerable, perched on the edge of Dean’s bed, but he stays, picking at the frayed denim covering his knees. They tend to stay out of each other’s rooms for the most part, and at least in Sam’s mind, that’s on purpose. He can’t afford to get comfortable in Dean’s space, start craving his presence even more than he already does. 

“Dean, I—” Sam starts, not quite knowing what all he wants to say, but this feels big, and he knows he has to say _something_. There’s this thing growing underneath his skin, stretching out, making room for itself in a way that’s hard to ignore.

But ignoring it is what Dean does best, so he moves away when Sam begins to speak, heading for his armoire. 

“Bedtime,” is what Dean says once more, almost like it’s grounding him to repeat his purpose in bringing Sam here, why Sam is on his bed. He comes out of the drawer with a couple pairs of sweatpants for them to change in to, shaking them in Sam’s line of vision.

“These are yours, I think,” Dean adds quietly, throwing a pair that lands softly in Sam’s lap.

“I’ve been looking for these for at least a year,” Sam accuses, holding up his favorite lounge pants, but Dean shrugs, unrepentant, offering no further comment. It makes that thing growing under Sam’s skin turn all warm, like a low, comfortable fire in the great room of the house, wondering if Dean has worn them in here, in secret. 

Dean turns away to shed his clothes, but Sam catches a brief flash of his pale ass as he drops his pants. He bites his lip, wondering if he’s the worst kind of pervert for the way his dick stirs in his jeans. Dean turns to him eventually, his strong, scarred chest bare as he makes his way back over to Sam.

“Need help?” Dean asks quietly, a soft, teasing eyebrow quirked at the way Sam hasn’t moved an inch since catching his sleep pants, mouth hanging open. 

Sam just nods, because clearly, he does need help. But also because this is the exact coddling he’d been hoping for, angling for, since he got home, tired and drunk and aching for his brother. Dean drops to his knees in front of Sam, the crackling of his joints audible as he gets as comfortable as possible against the wood floor. 

He pushes Sam’s jacket off his shoulders, then starts on the buttons of his red flannel. Sam’s eyes are closed, enjoying the warm touch of Dean’s fingers against his skin as he deftly parts Sam’s shirt, and he has completely forgotten any reason why he wouldn’t want Dean to see him. But he remembers the second Dean’s fingers go tight in his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fist as Dean’s other hand pulls the v-neck of his undershirt aside, exposing the dark purple-red hickey right next to his stark black tattoo. 

Dean doesn’t say anything for a minute, doesn’t seem to be able to. Finally, he croaks out, “Sam.”

Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to articulate the dangerous, careless mood he’d been in earlier, except to say, “I was so mad at you, Dean. I— I still am. But I’m sorry, even though I shouldn’t be. Even though I don’t really know why I’m sorry. But I am. I’m still mad at you, but I’m sorry.”

Dean still doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches out his hand, letting his fingers graze the obvious teeth-marks inside the dark bruise. 

Then suddenly, without warning, Dean presses his thumb deep into the purple mark, hard enough to make Sam groan through his teeth, make his breath catch, dick twitch. 

“Dean,” he gasps, holding tightly to his brother’s wrist, not sure if he wants to pull him away or push his touch harder into the bruise. 

Dean releases him without warning, the bruise throbbing sharply from blood rushing back into the space Dean’s thumb had occupied. Sam’s gasping, unable to catch his breath, and their foreheads end up pressed together. And wouldn’t you know it? Dean is gasping, too.

“I’m sorry,” Dean finally whispers, so low and thick and tortured, Sam barely hears him. Sam knows Dean doesn’t want to go, but he thinks he has to. It’s Sam’s job to show him that’s not true. “I don’t— I don’t wanna leave you. I’m sorry.” 

“Dean,” Sam starts, pressing their foreheads even closer together, grabbing onto Dean’s biceps. “Dean, if you leave, who— who’s gonna love me?”

Dean nearly gasps, throwing himself backwards, out of Sam’s grasp. “What the hell kinda question— Sam, plenty of people love you!”

Sam stands, using his full height to tower over Dean. It’s imperative Dean hear him in this, and if he has to use his size to make Dean listen, he will. 

“It’s not the same, and you know it. Who would I have left? Jack? I’m his parent. Cas? Well, I’m kinda like his parent, too. Mom? Dean, I barely have a relationship with her. Jody? She’s more like _my_ mom, but she has way too many other people to think about. She shouldn’t have to worry about me. Rowena? I’m pretty sure she’s always looking for a way to kill me first these days, despite her being an ally. You’re the only one who doesn’t see me as some sort of— of tool, a means to an end. You’re the only one who knows every little thing about me and loves me anyway, loves me no matter what. Never stops fighting for me. Always sees the best in me, always pushes me to be better. You— you see me as a man, not just as your little brother.

“And I need that, Dean. Everybody wants to be needed, to be loved for who they are, not for what they can do. That’s what you give me, you know? And nobody else can do that. And if you won’t stay, then you should build a box big enough for two. And if you won’t do that, I swear, Dean, if you don’t take me with you, the second we drop you down into the ocean, I’m gonna eat a bullet. Because none of this—” 

Sam watches as the color drains from Dean’s face, as the shock blooms strong along his delicate features, and it pisses him off like crazy. “Are you serious, Dean? How do you still not know that? How do you still think I have some sort of edge, some sort of advantage you don’t have when we’re separated? I can’t do this anymore; I can’t keep getting you back just to lose you again. I’d rather die, Dean, and I mean that. So that’s what I’m going to do. If you wanna die, fine. You’re not the only one who’s tired. But for the love of God, Dean, let’s just— let’s just do it ourselves. Thelma and Louise, like you said. So— so we can be together after. In our Heaven. Not separated forever.”

Dean looks like he’s going to throw up. “Sam—”

“Or maybe, Dean. Maybe you could find a way to— to live. For me.” Sam shrugs, exhausted in every way a person can be exhausted. He doesn’t wanna fight anymore; he can’t. It’s late, he’s still drunk, and Dean just keeps on breaking his heart. 

“I’m sorry about this, Dean,” Sam tells him, pointing to the hickey. He goes to leave Dean’s room, to bed down in his own, assuming that’s what Dean wants, when his big brother grabs his elbow.

“Sammy, don’t. Don’t go. We can argue about this tomorrow, but right now, tonight— please. Just— just stay. I don’t— I can’t— I don’t wanna be alone. He’s— my head gets so loud at night, Sam. And I just—”

Sam can honestly say he wasn’t expecting that, but he’s so grateful for Dean’s bare-hearted honesty he could just cry. But he won’t. Enough crying, for the love of everything. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean. I promise.”

Dean sighs, relieved. He nods, pulling Sam close again, fitting his hands around his hips once more. “Can I— let me finish undressing you. Um. For bed.”

Sam lets him, and then lets Dean pull him down under the covers. Dean’s thumb moves back and forth over the mark on Sam’s chest, and Sam feels bad, really he does, but the look in Dean’s eyes, the way he seems lighter, somehow— he can’t be all that sorry. He wants Dean to want Sam all to himself. He wants Dean to tell him he’s not allowed to let anyone else touch him. He wants to belong to him. He wants Dean to want him enough to stay. To find another way.

And he feels like he’s closer to that becoming a possibility than ever before, despite the circumstances. Or maybe— or maybe because of them. 

A couple days pass, and the brothers find themselves stumbling down the bunker's stairs once more. This time, though, the atmosphere between them is so much different. There’s no undercurrent of tragedy, no impending separation, because Sam might have said ‘all right’ to Dean’s pleas of letting him go one day, but he would have agreed to just about anything to get Dean into the car. That doesn’t actually mean he’s ever going to let Dean go; he doesn’t even know how to go about trying.

Sam feels _really_ bad about hitting him; his knuckles are still throbbing hours later. He can count on one hand the times he’s struck Dean out of anger— it’s just not his style, but he could see that his words, his pleas weren’t getting through to Dean. Sam had to use a baser language Dean would register in his emotionless state, and his big brother knows if Sam is throwing hands, he’s two seconds away from losing any grip he has left over his anger, his temper. Over the monster roaring to life inside him. If Dean hadn’t physically stopped him, hadn’t given in to Sam’s desperate hug, he thinks he could have accidentally beaten Dean into unconsciousness. That’s why he doesn’t start physical fights— if he starts them, it’s because he intends to finish them.

When they clear the landing, Sam hears Jack call out for him. Dean might not have wanted to tell Jack what was happening, but Sam had to call him, _had_ to brace him for the possibility of Dean never coming home. Jack’s voice is somber, hesitant as he says Sam’s name, like he’s afraid of what state he’ll find Sam in. Sam doesn’t blame him. If he’d returned without Dean, Sam was ready to make good on his promise to eat a bullet. He would hate to leave Jack, but he knows he would be in no state to take care of him any longer. In that case, Castiel would have to step up. And Sam knows he would. 

“We’re home,” Sam calls back, unable to keep the shaky smile out of his voice. 

Despite Dean’s vehemence that if he were around Sam, he would be talked out of his suicidal plan, Sam didn’t actually let himself believe it. He’d wondered if that was just Dean’s excuse for ditching him without a goodbye, but he knows now that it was pure insecurity, purely not being able to see himself as worthy of that kind of devotion, tricking him into believing Dean wouldn’t choose him above all else. He should know that by now, but sometimes, he forgets. 

There’s a beat of silence from the library, then the sound of a chair scraping back, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. Jack runs around the corner, eyes wide, and he stops in his tracks when he sees Dean. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean greets hesitantly, holding out his arms. “Miss me?” 

“Dad,” Jack breathes with a blinding smile, and Sam has to turn away to hide the flash of tears that spring to his eyes. He can’t even imagine Dean’s expression, knowing his brother’s buried dreams of having a family someday. Of being someone’s father. And now— 

Jack springs into action, his feet loud on the floor once more, and he throws himself into Dean’s arms, hugging him so fiercely, Dean’s jacket is pulled tight by Jack’s fists bunching the material. 

Dean hugs him back just as hard, shooting Sam a bewildered smile over Jack’s head. Sam nods, the grin on his face almost hurting his cheeks. His heart is so full he thinks it might burst, spill glitter and rainbows all over the floor. 

Jack detaches himself from Dean, lunging at Sam to wrap him up in a hug, too. 

“I knew you’d save him, father,” he murmurs into Sam’s chest, causing Sam to squeeze him so tight, Jack’s feet come off the ground. 

When Jack finally lets him go, they all stand there awkwardly for a moment, clearing their throats around the rare displays of emotion. 

“I need a shower,” is what Sam says to break the silence, moving towards the library, Dean and Jack in tow. 

Dean checks his watch as he sets their duffels on the library table. “It’s just after six AM. How ‘bout I scare us up some breakfast? A big one; none of that granola and grapefruit crap, okay, Sammy?” 

Sam grins. “That sounds great,” he tells him, because it does, but even if it didn’t, he’d happily eat anything Dean served him right now. He still can’t quite believe Dean’s here, offering to cook them breakfast like Sam hadn’t just pulled Dean down off the scariest ledge he had ever dangled over. 

“Good,” Dean grins back, and they just smile at each other from across the table for a moment. Sam can see Jack grinning at them out of the corner of his eye, looking back and forth between them like they’re playing an extreme form of tennis. 

When Dean catches Jack’s eye and matching dopey grin, he clears his throat once more, wrapping an arm around Jack’s shoulders to lead him towards the kitchen. 

“Hey kid, you ever heard of a sous chef?” 

“A what chef?”

Sam smiles after them. It’s just after sunrise, and it looks like it’s gonna be a beautiful day. 

Sam and Dean can hardly stifle their massive yawns as their forks scrape their empty plates. Dean and Jack had cooked them a feast of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon, not to mention cutting up some fresh fruit just for Sam.

Sam doesn’t think he can fit another bite, so he sets down his fork with a groan, stretching his long arms above his head. The groan-yawning is contagious, Dean following suit with a satisfied pat to his flat belly.

“You two should get some sleep,” Jack advises them sagely. “It’s not good for you to stay up all night driving.” 

Dean shrugs with a grin. “When the kid’s right, he’s right.” He stands, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “You think you can handle cleaning up the kitchen, bud? You remember how to wash the dishes, right?” 

“Yes,” Jack answers solemnly. “I won’t let you down, Dean.” 

“Good boy,” Dean responds affectionately, scrubbing his hand through Jack’s hair. Maybe it should sound like he’s speaking to a dog, or something, but it doesn’t— it just sounds sweet. Sam warms from the tips of his toes up to his flushed cheeks as Dean turns to him. “You leave me any hot water after washing all that princess hair, Samantha?” 

Sam grins up at Dean as his big brother passes his seat, unable to stifle his joy over how light, how _young_ his brother sounds, looks when he’s teasing him. “Just enough for you to wash those grey armpit hairs, old man.” 

Jack laughs, and Dean scoffs, muttering, “ _you’re_ a grey armpit hair,” as he slinks out of the kitchen, knowing he’d lost that round. 

Thirty minutes later, Sam’s lying in bed with his tablet, scrolling through the news. He’s exhausted, but he’s waiting for… something. A sign. A knock at the door. _Something._

He was not at all subtle about barging into Dean’s nightmare the night before, but Dean had been grouchy as hell, wanting to escape the conversation, escape Sam so badly, he’d left Sam alone in _their_ room, running away to the bathroom. It had given Sam plenty of time to see the bright red blood, the deep scratches in the wall; his own blood had turned into ice as he’d run his fingers over the claw marks. He’d waited for Dean to exit the bathroom for a whole fifteen minutes, but Dean never came out. There’s no way to verbally express the hurt Sam felt, hearing the bathroom door open a couple minutes after Sam got in bed, mattress squeaking audibly.

So, needless to say, Sam’s a little gun-shy to try that again. Sam hasn’t shared a bed with Dean since the night he came home with a drunken hickey, but he thinks if he could choose any night to be close to his brother, it would be this night. Or, well. This morning, technically. Right now, whenever that is, time of day completely irrelevant at this moment, in their (not-so-secret) underground bunker.

But if Dean’s in the mood to give in to Sam’s demands, he wants to know what else Dean couldn’t, wouldn’t want to say no to. 

Sam stands, deciding to fetch some ice and the first-aid kit— the black eye he’d given Dean had started to blossom on his handsome face over breakfast. Plus, he wants to look at Dean’s hands, his nails, pick out any splinters, clean them up good. He’s wanted to ever since he saw the blood etched into the wall, and Dean’s gonna sit still and let Sam, or so help him.

As he rises, there’s a knock at his door. His heart stupidly jumps into his throat, like he doesn’t know who it is, like it could be anyone other than Dean. Except maybe… maybe that’s the reason his chest aches like this, because Dean is seeking him out once more. Sam is a little brother through-and-through, so he always wants Dean to want his undivided attention.

“Hey,” Dean greets softly as Sam opens the door. He smells like a fresh shower and familiar aftershave (the same brand he’s used since he started shaving), which is very distracting, but not so much so that Sam doesn’t notice the shoddy-looking bandage job covering Dean’s fingers. He still wants to take a look, because how well can someone bandage their own fingers, really? Not very well, apparently. Not to mention Dean’s a baby about splinters, so Sam really doubts he took the time to use some tweezers. 

“Can I, uh. Can I talk to you about something?” Dean continues, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Sam reaches out to drag his thumb along the bright red-and-purple bruise adorning his brother’s cheekbone. Dean goes completely still, pretending like he’s not blushing splotchy red patches all the way down his chest as he stares at the floor and lets Sam touch him however he wants. 

“Of course,” Sam responds after a beat, thumbing at Dean’s stubbled cheek once more before dropping his hand, trying not to shiver at Dean’s docility under Sam’s touch. “I was just going to find the first aid kit. _And_ the tweezers.”

“Sammy,” Dean whines, “I don’t have any splinters, I swear—”

“Bull,” Sam states firmly, spinning Dean around by the shoulders to face the hallway. “Move it. I’m gonna go grab everything. I’ll meet you in your room.” He tries to sound firm, casual.

“Uh. Fine,” Dean asserts breathlessly, trying and failing to sound firm but casual, too.

Dean is perched bare-chested and straight-backed on the edge of his bed when Sam comes in, carrying the first-aid kit and a bag of frozen peas. He notices that Dean’s stripped the bandages off his fingers, giving in to Sam playing nursemaid, allowing him to patch Dean up any way he sees fit.

And anyway, Dean may whine like a baby, but he loves being coddled when he’s hurt just like Sam does when he’s drunk. He can pretend all he likes, but Sam’s got his number.

He hands Dean the bag of peas for his blackening eye, before flattening Dean’s other hand in his large palm, moving Dean’s fingers from side-to-side so he can get a good look at them. Rolling his eyes, he scoffs, grabbing the tweezers from his sweatpants’ pocket.

“No splinters, my ass,” Sam mutters, wrenching the first little sliver of wood out of Dean’s skin. Dean makes a hurt noise under his breath, but Sam has no sympathy. “You have at _least_ seven. Were you just gonna let all your fingers get infected and rot off? I’d like to see you hold a gun that way; you’d look _real_ stupid. I bet our enemies would laugh right in your stupid face.” He glances up at Dean as he bitches, but he’s taken aback by the gentle smile on Dean’s face.

“Ah, Sammy,” Dean offers happily, “I knew you’d never let me look stupid in front of our enemies. Besides, you like my face.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam gruffs, ignoring that last comment while trying his hardest not to let Dean see how charmed he is over his brother’s flirty tone and fond gaze. “You’d fall apart without me, rotten fingers or not.”

Dean sucks in a slow breath, watching as Sam slathers ointment all over his hands. “I know, Sam. Believe me.”

Dean’s tone has taken a turn, and Sam looks up at Dean to gauge his mood. It’s not dark, or sad, but Dean seems to have something stuck in his throat, something so heavy it’s getting wrapped up in his vocal chords, unable to make its way out.

“Dean, I— I don’t mind. You know, I, uh. Like taking care of you,” Sam stammers, dropping his eyes back to Dean’s hands as he finishes off the bandages. He wants Dean to know that as much as he bitches, Sam would be lost without a big brother to take care of, to fuss over.

Dean sighs deeply. “Come sit beside me, hmmm?” He pats the bed with his freshly-wrapped hand, placing the bag of peas on the floor. “There’s something I need to tell you— about, about me. About why it was so hard to find me the first time around. How— how Michael kept me docile, kept me from fighting so much. At least— at least at first.”

Sam sits after cleaning up the supplies, turning to face his brother. Dean sounds far away, a little dreamy, a little lost in his head, and Sam is desperate to get Dean’s attention fully back to the present. He doesn’t want Dean to long for whatever scenario Michael cooked up for him the first time. 

“You can tell me anything,” Sam promises, squeezing Dean’s thigh. He goes to move his hand away, but Dean stops him, the bandages scratching at Sam’s skin as Dean’s hand comes to rest on top of his, squeezing his fingers tightly. 

“So,” Dean starts, finally taking his hand back, just to nervously rub it up and down his thigh. “You were right about Michael, about where he liked to ‘put’ me to keep me… down. He clearly loves disarming me with good memories, or— or scenarios that could be memories, I guess. I’m so used to fighting and bloodshed that it would do nothing but keep me sharp to land me in my worst nightmares— kinda like with Purgatory, you know? 

“Anyway, when he first— first got me, I fought hard. All day, all night. I had nothing else to do. I was just… there. He got tired of me quick, though, so one day, I ‘woke up’ in a big bed in a nice house with a dog at my feet and a rainstorm outside, and it was just… the most _amazing_ thing. I felt completely and totally at peace. I’d never felt like that before. And… and then I rolled over in bed, and I realized I wasn’t sleeping alone. I realized that I suddenly had been given everything I wanted, and it seemed so right, so natural, I never thought to question it.”

Sam swallows thickly. He’s so disgustingly jealous of whoever was in that bed with Dean, he thinks he might throw up, and he kind of wants Dean to stop talking. He must feel the need to address Sam’s drunken affection from the other night; he must have seen it in Sam’s eyes, how he really feels. And this is Dean breaking it to Sam in the most general, kind way he knows how. 

“Who was it?” Sam asks, despite everything in him not wanting to know. “It was Lisa, right?” 

Dean looks at him blankly, then laughs. Not meanly, but out of sheer surprise. “Lisa? God, Sammy. No. It wasn’t Lisa.”

“Cassie, then?” he asks blankly.

 _“Cassie?_ Oh my god, I haven’t thought about her in ten fuckin’ years, man. Look, I… I know you’re smarter than this, Sam. Are you… are you really gonna make me say it?”

Sam is not wrong often, okay? But the way his heart starts pounding in his chest as he really _sees_ the way Dean is looking at him tells him that once again, his insecurities got the better of him. But— but. There’s just no way.

There’s no way he’s talking about, “me?” 

“Yeah, genius. You.” Dean gives Sam absolutely zero time to process the enormity of what he’s just admitted. Instead, he continues like he didn’t just flip Sam’s world upside down. Or maybe right-side up. 

“Anyway. Yeah. So he… gave me us. I mean, it was us, retired, you know? House with a mortgage, nine-to-five jobs, the whole nine. Even a dog, like I said. And we were exactly the same, except…” 

Sam turns into him fully, almost daring him with his body to say it. “Except what, Dean?”

“Except we did this,” Dean whispers, and he pulls Sam even closer into him, tilting his head with the grip he suddenly has in Sam’s hair. He stares baldly up into his little brother’s eyes, holding still for just a moment. Sam can see how calm he is, how sure, and it makes him sigh out Dean’s name, right there against his brother’s beautiful mouth. 

Then, Dean kisses him for the very first time. 

As Sam instantly pushes deeper into the kiss, wrapping his hands around Dean’s biceps to pull him closer, moaning, he realizes that for some reason, it feels like they’ve been kissing all their lives. Maybe even longer. Dean’s mouth is slow, sweet, just lips and a little teeth, no tongue, like he’s not giving it up yet. It’s familiar, and he doesn’t know why. It makes Sam crazy, makes him tilt Dean’s head back to take control. Dean’s fingers wrap around Sam’s wrists, his bandages tickling Sam’s skin, but even still, Dean doesn’t give up his tongue.

“Sammy, wait,” Dean pants, breaking the kiss. He’s unable to hold in his groan as Sam diverts his lips rather than stop kissing Dean, trailing them down Dean’s neck, burying his teeth in the crook. 

“Dammit, Sam, lemme— lemme say this! If I don’t get this out now—” 

Sam kisses him again, because who _cares;_ they’ve clearly figured it out.

But then Dean really pushes, getting his hands planted against Sam’s chest as he does. Their lips break apart with a sharp pop, and Sam moans in confusion. What the fuck, Dean?

But when Sam stops whining to really look at his brother, he gets it. There are things Dean has to say, maybe not even to him, but just to say them. And Sam is the only person who can take Dean’s confession. 

“Okay,” he sighs, placing a kiss in the palm of Dean’s hand before setting it down in Dean’s lap, knowing if he keeps touching him, he won’t ever be able to stop. He can’t believe his life right now. “I’m listening, Dean. Promise.”

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He sharply sucks in air through his teeth when bandage tape catches in the short strands, but he quickly sobers, biting at his swollen mouth as he looks for the words.

“So, it was good for a while. With us. I don’t really remember details of that time; I just get flashes of scenes when I try to recall anything. I don’t know how long it was, especially relative to real time, but it felt like at least six months. Then, as best as I can figure, in the real world, you started popping up on Michael’s radar in a big way. He underestimated you at first— don’t they all, Sammy— but you started to intimidate him, and that pissed him off, I guess. The closer you got to finding him, me, the worse my dream-world became. And this stuff? This stuff Michael made sure I could remember, in every detail. It started out as just us bitching at each other constantly and slamming doors, but it elevated quickly. I— I caught you ch-cheating on me. And— and then, the next thing I remember, I was in our bed. And I—” 

Dean stops there, eyes closing tight, like he’s trying to banish whatever he’s seeing against his eyelids. 

Sam grabs his closest hand, bringing it to his chest. Laying it over his heart, letting Dean feel the strong beat under his bare skin. It may be the cheesiest thing he’s ever done, but it makes Dean open his eyes, really look at him.

“Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real,” and it chokes Sam up to think of the days Dean said the exact same thing to him, except about his own archangel, Lucifer. “I’m real. This is real. Stone number one, remember?”

Dean has a small, but real smile for that. “Yeah, Sam. I remember.” He takes his hand back from Sam’s chest, using it to rub harshly over his mouth. “The next thing I knew, after finding you cheating on me, we were in our bed, and I was covered in blood. Your blood. You were getting— your body was getting cold. And there was a knife in my hand. And your eyes— they were open, Sammy, and they— they just _stared_ at me, dead—”

Sam knows all-too-well the horrors an archangel can conjure up, and how true they can make those horrors ring to their victim’s worst nightmares. And those _are_ Dean’s worst nightmares: Sam choosing someone else over him (the cheating), and Dean becoming the monster he always fears himself to be (murdering his brother, his Sam). 

“It’s not real,” Sam repeats, taking Dean’s clammy hand in his warmer one. “I’m real.”

Dean nods. “It was then— that’s when I heard your voice. _Your_ voice, not— not the dead you, or the dream you. I heard you calling my name. And that’s when I remembered everything, where I was, who I was. And I knew you were still alive. It didn’t— that adrenaline, that knowledge that you weren’t dead, you were out there, and I had to get to you— it didn’t take long for Michael to retreat after that. Backdoor-leaving son of a bitch,” he adds bitterly. “Anyway, that’s when I came to walking through those doors, you and Cas staring at me.

“And I’m afraid,” Dean concludes, “because he’s in my head again. He’s like, ten-percent possessing me. You know? I don’t know what all he sees. And I’m afraid he sees you, sees this. Can— can feel what you do to me, inside.” Dean just keeps saying things Sam would like to take the time to truly process, then moving on without pausing. “And I’m afraid he can— he can make me hurt you, Sammy. I couldn’t— Sam. I couldn’t. I _can’t.”_

Sam can tell Dean’s truly been agonizing over this (no _wonder_ he thought he deserved to be forever submerged in a damn metal box), and it pisses him off so _much_ that the stupid supernatural shit in their lives has kept them from having this for over twenty fucking years. 

“And Sammy,” Dean adds, using his bandaged fingers to trail along Sam’s face with such tender affection that Sam can’t help but turn his face into it, forgetting his anger for the moment. “I’m sorry about saying— about saying, you know, _that—_ for just. For just blurting it out in the middle of a sentence. Like it was something I’d been saying all along. But I do, Sammy, I do so much, and I— you just had to know before I… left.”

Sam sighs, pulling Dean closer. “Dean, I’m not— I’m not mad at you for saying it. I’m not mad about anything. I just… God, Dean. I’d been waiting to hear it for so long, and I— I just wish you could have said it under different circumstances. You deserved that, and so did I. You know?”

Dean’s smile is a little shy, a little coquettish. He nuzzles into Sam again, his nose trailing his cheek, and he murmurs, “Have I been makin’ you wait, baby? Hmm? How long you been waitin’ for me?”

Sam groans, mouth dropping open to pant as Dean drags his mouth down Sam’s throat. The way Dean’s talking to him, his voice, what he’s saying, what he _called_ him— his dick starts to harden against his thigh. He can’t help it. 

“Hmmm?” Dean repeats, lips on Sam’s adam’s apple. “Tell me, Sammy.”

“God, Dean. _Years.”_

_“Tell me.”_

“At least— at least twenty. But god, it— it feels like all my life.” 

Dean groans, flopping down onto his back on the bed, covering his face. “Twenty fuckin’— _Sammy._ Why didn’t you— all this time, and we can’t ever get it back.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Dean.” Sam turns to face him, crossing his long legs on the bed. “We can’t— we can’t do that. That’s not how our lives work, regretting the past. The past is heavy, Dean, so let’s— let’s just focus on now. And the future,” he adds, trying to gauge Dean’s reaction.

Dean smiles, but it’s a little blank. Not at all the reassurance Sam wanted to see. “Yeah, Sammy. The now part’s perfect. And the future… Well, we’ll take it as it comes.”

Sam growls, his temper sparking sudden and hot. He straddles his completely startled big brother, pinning his hands to the bed with his strong fingers wrapped around Dean’s wrists. 

“What the hell, Sam—” Dean demands, wiggling defiantly, trying to free himself.

Sam won’t have it. He leans down, pinning Dean with all his strength, even as his brother groans and protests. His mouth goes to Dean’s ear, and in a clear but quiet voice, he says:

“If Dean’s right, and you’re watching me, Michael, or listening, I have something to say to you.”

Dean goes very still, groaning at Sam’s possessive, angry voice vibrating his ear drums. He blindly grabs onto Sam’s thighs from where they’re planted next to Dean’s hips, and he holds on for whatever is about to come.

“Dean Winchester is already taken.”

“Fuck,” Dean groans, and Sam can feel Dean’s cock pushing against his, both of them suddenly and unignorably hard. Sam just presses him further into the bed with his weight, and Dean lets him, pliant as anything. As a dream. 

“You might have a tiny part of his mind, but do you know what I have? His soul. I know you angels are well-acquainted with the power of souls, so do you really think you stand a chance against me? His soulmate? You know why you haven’t met this world’s Michael? We killed him as an afterthought almost a decade ago because he thought he was stronger than us. You think I’m scared of you? I hope you _are_ thinking about me; you can think about the fact that I’m the one who’s going to kill you. To us, you’re just one more inconvenience in a long line of inconveniences. Don’t make yourself too comfortable in there, because I have owned Dean Winchester long before we’d even thought to care about you. You’re not the first to be mistaken about to whom he belongs, but you _are_ the only one still alive. For now. We’ll be talking again real soon.” 

Sam sighs, clears his throat. “And one more thing. I— I love him. With all of my heart. With everything I have. I am _never_ going to leave him, and I will _never_ let him go, despite whatever promises I might make under duress.”

“Sam—” Dean starts to protest, but Sam cuts him off.

“I will _never_ leave him.” Sam finally moves, taking his weight off Dean slightly. He brings his face back level with Dean, staring down at his beautiful big brother, his hair falling in Dean’s eyes a little. Sam waits until Dean looks back, looks him square in the eye, and then he repeats, “I love him. And I will _never_ let him go. Not ever, Dean.”

Dean blinks, trying but failing to hide the tears swimming in his bright green eyes. “Okay, Sammy,” he whispers, like a ghost of last night, giving in to Sam. To them. Finally.

Sam doesn’t know who initiates the kiss, but all of a sudden, he’s on his back, his brother’s lips parting against his. Dean pins him down with his shoulders, with his hips, and their hard cocks come into contact once more. This time, Dean groans into Sam’s mouth, wrapping his fingers tightly through Sam’s hair. Sam knows he’s gonna lose some strands to the bandage tape, but he’s so far from caring it’s ridiculous. He plants his feet on the bed just as Dean finally gives up his tongue, and Sam’s moan is so pathetic that he can feel himself flush. 

Dean is distracted tasting every inch of Sam’s mouth, so Sam uses the opportunity to sneak a hand down Dean’s chest, down to his cock. He covers what he can of the hard (and thick, thicker than Sam) length tenting his brother's sweatpants, finally cupping Dean’s dick in his palm. 

“Did we do this in your dream, too?” Sam asks, and Dean groans, nodding as Sam gropes him.

“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah.” 

Their pants are soon lost in the mass of sheets at the end of the bed. Dean pins Sam by the shoulders, using them as an anchor to prop himself up. His hazy, wild green eyes pan up and down Sam’s naked torso, biting his lip when he notices the way Sam’s cock is peeking out of the top of his boxers. He looks thoroughly and utterly wrecked by the sight of Sam, his short hair in every direction, his swollen, red mouth hanging open as he tries to form words.

Sam is maybe not-so-secretly self-conscious, so Dean’s unrelenting gaze makes him squirm, makes him want to break the heady tension.

“What?” he grins. “I mean, technically, you’ve seen this, right? Seen me, naked, in your memory-dream thing?” 

Dean’s face goes soft, and he smiles gently, shaking his head. He drops down to his forearms, hovering slightly over Sam, but pressing against him, too. “No, baby. I ain’t never seen this, not anywhere, not ever. That version of you… he might as well have been a— a damn sex doll, for all he felt like you, looked like you. Smelled like you. Sammy, you’re— you’re _alive._ One of a kind. The biggest pain in my ass. And so damned beautiful. And you’re mine. Aren’t you?”

Sam swears he wasn’t fishing for compliments, but the glow he feels up under his skin is addictive. “Yeah, Dean. And you’re mine.”

Dean rolls his eyes playfully, nudging his nose against Sam’s. “Think everybody already knew that, Sammy. Wrapped around your little finger, ain’t I.” 

“Then stop talking and make me come,” Sam demands, hiking his hips up to push his still hard cock into Dean’s stomach. The exposed head brushes Dean’s soft underbelly, and they both moan, startled.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean mumbles, kissing Sam deeply, once, before moving down his body to tug Sam’s boxers the rest of the way off. 

Sam’s cock slaps hard and huge against his belly, and Dean groans, “fuckin’ knew you had a big dick, Sammy. Look at you.”

Sam moans at the wrecked way Dean sounds, moving his hand down to palm at his cock. He’s been hard for so long it almost hurts, and he needs some relief _now._ Dean smacks his hand away, though, and Sam whines, but complies.

“Dean, _please,”_ he pants, hiking his hips up, trying to find any kind of friction.

“You beggin’ me, Sammy?” Dean asks lowly, backing away to strip himself out of his boxers. Sam doesn’t get a long look at him, but he’s clearly big, thicker than Sam, if not about the same length. He distracts Sam by coming close again, pushing Sam’s long legs back and back and back until his knees touch his shoulders. He pulls Sam towards him by his hips, and Sam closes his eyes, practically already able to feel Dean’s hot, swollen mouth on his dick—

But Dean doesn’t do that. Instead, he parts Sam’s ass cheeks, and Sam gasps, almost swallowing his tongue when Dean’s pushes lightly against his hole. 

“Oh my _god,”_ Sam nearly sobs, already falling apart just from the tease, the implication of what Dean’s about to do. It’s one of the main things he’s thought about Dean doing to him, while fisting his cock and biting his knuckles, trying to stay quiet in the privacy of his bedroom. He can’t _believe_ his life right now.

Dean eats him out like he would a girl, tipping his hips up and getting him so wet with his spit it drips down his back. Dean obviously loves doing this, loves dipping his tongue in and curling it as best he can against the tight muscle, just to bring it out to a point so he can trace the softened rim. Then he flattens his tongue, licking over him like a cat, moaning as the lower half of his face gets damp in the process. He eats him out like that until Sam is soft, like putty under Dean’s tongue, until Sam is sure Dean’s jaw aches.

He finally pulls back with a groan, kissing at Sam’s balls and inner thighs. “Sammy, I wanna— but my damn fingers, I can’t—”

Sam gets what he’s trying to say through his breathless pants, so he nods, “get the lube,” drawing Dean up to hover over him. 

Dean reaches out for his nightstand, fumbling through the drawer before making a triumphant noise. He upends the bottle, pouring a good amount on the tips of Sam’s fingers, but Sam waits, watches as Dean pours some on the tip of his cock, jacking his length a couple times to coat it completely. Sam could watch him all day.

Sam pulls Dean back down to him, then pushes one hand down his sweaty body, bending his leg and lifting it high so he can curl his fingers underneath him. His other hand goes to Dean’s face, brushing at his damp eyelashes with his thumb, cupping his cheek to bring him close.

The kiss is slow, sweet, like Dean is trying to communicate something to Sam. He has to break it off eventually, gasping against Dean’s mouth as he works two, then three long fingers inside his tenderized asshole. 

“Dean,” he gasps, removing his fingers, his lube-sticky hands grabbing onto Dean’s hips as he pulls him closer.

Dean pushes his left leg back up, spreading him wide, letting the other fall away, to the side. Tipping Sam’s hips with a strong hand, he uses his other to guide his cock to Sam’s hole, pushing against it lightly, teasing him. 

“You done this before?” Dean asks suddenly, pushing into him just a little bit deeper before pulling out again. 

Sam groans, smacking the bed. “Really? Now?”

Dean suddenly has him by the throat, lightly, but enough to get Sam’s attention. He groans deep in his chest, eyes flying open, and he almost shivers at the dangerous possessiveness he sees clouding up Dean’s eyes. 

“You’re the one who came home with a hickey, little brother,” Dean nearly growls, letting go of Sam’s throat to push at the fading bruise. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but Sam moans anyway, just from the sense memory. And maybe from Dean calling him ‘little brother’ while the tip of his cock is pushing against Sam’s asshole. 

“In college,” Sam bites out. “Happy?”

“Happy?” Dean repeats, eyes softening. He crawls up Sam’s body to lay a gentle, tender kiss against his lips, like an apology for his flash of temper. Not that Sam minds the possessiveness, not that he doesn’t completely understand. He wanted to kill every single one of Dean’s girlfriends, but he never thought he’d have to talk about his sexual history with Dean. He never thought Dean would care, that it would be relevant. 

“Am I happy that some asshole got a taste of what’s mine? Am I happy that we wasted half our lives getting here, when we could have been like this from the start? No, Sammy, that doesn’t make me happy. But it doesn't matter, as long as I know that from here on out, you’re mine. And you know that I’m yours. No more women, no more anything. Just mine, just yours. Yeah?” 

Sam nods, hardly able to believe this fucking day. The only way it could get any better—

Dean fucks into him slowly, but unexpectedly, and Sam whimpers high in his nose, grappling onto Dean’s sweaty hips as they push forward. 

“D-dammit, Sam, I— I can already tell I’m gonna— I’m not gonna—”

“It’s okay,” Sam insists, wrapping his long arms around Dean’s waist to pull him the rest of the way in. It hurts; of course it does. It’s been years, and Sam barely spent any time opening himself up. But his cock stays hard from where it’s crushed against Dean’s strong belly, and he can hear himself moaning, whiny little ‘uh-uh-uh’s as Dean digs his hips in just that much deeper.

“Do it, Dean. Fuck, do it,” Sam begs, pushing his hips up into Dean’s. His big brother’s thick cock presses against his prostate no matter what angle he chooses, so all he needs is for Dean to get moving, and he’s gonna—

Dean buries his nose in Sam’s neck, groaning as he rolls his hips into Sam’s, fucking him with thick, sweet pushes as he packs it down deep. Sam yelps as Dean’s teeth close around Sam’s fading hickey, sucking at it, chewing it harshly, making his mark one thousand times more evident than the one that came before it. Sam barely gets a hand on his drooling, weeping cock before he comes, twenty-years worth of pent-up love, aggression, madness and devotion exploding out of him with a shout. Dean melts his lips over Sam’s, muffing his high-pitched whines as he rings himself dry. Dean comes moments later, with a long moan into Sam’s mouth, the satisfaction echoing throughout his insides.

“Fuck, baby, fuck,” Dean pants, kind of laughing, kind of crying, kissing him all over his face as they try to catch their breath. Dean’s cock is still inside him, but he just pulls Dean closer, sighing into his mouth as they sink into the bed. 

“Shower?” Dean suggests after they separate with a hurt noise. He wrinkles his nose at the soiled sheets as they rise, sighing deeply. “Is this a bad time to teach Jack how to make the bed?”

Sam laughs, smacking Dean on the arm, teasing each other as they walk butt-naked to the showers. Luckily, Jack is in bed. Sam would hate to have to explain that one to him.

Dean ends up changing the sheets, then sitting naked between Sam’s legs as he redoes Dean’s bandages. They crawl under the covers after, Dean leaning over him to turn off the lamp. They come together immediately, their bodies fitting like tectonic plates, pushing and groaning against each other until they find a comfortable position to rest for the time being. 

“Sam,” Dean whispers as his little brother makes himself at home against Dean’s chest, pushing his nose into his sternum. “I just want you to know that... that I’m gonna fight to keep this. My life. And I _know_ you can’t promise me anything, as much as I wish you could, when it comes to letting me go. If… if it gets to that point. I just want you to know I get it; I get why you can’t let me go, because if letting me go feels anything like letting you go, Sam, it’s… there’s nothing worse for me, no worse fate than being separated from you. Because I love you, baby. You know that, right? I love you, Sam.”

Sam nods, nose brushing against Dean’s tattoo. The same tattoo he has, right next to the throbbing hickey Dean redid just for him. He hides his sleepy smile in Dean’s neck, finally certain that nothing is certain except Dean isn’t going into that metal box. Not if Sam has any say in it, and as it turns out, he has a _lot_ of say in it. He’s truly not afraid of Michael, because like he told Dean last night: he believes in them.

“Never gonna leave you, Dean,” he whispers against his brother’s skin, needing the smell of him up close like this for the rest of his life. “Never gonna let you go.”

The last thing Sam hears before he drifts off is Dean’s voice, smiling as he breathes, “Okay, Sammy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was worth the very, very, very long wait. I don't know if inspiration will strike me like this again, but as I've seen, these two boys always seem to draw me back in, so I won't say never. Know that I love you all so much, and I couldn't ask for a better experience as a writer in fandom. I truly treasure every single one of you. Thank you. Xoxoxo, L


End file.
